The stone walls are plaster over stone.
They are thick and rough.
Somewhere in their past, there was white wash,
most of it worn away by time and neglect.
The windows are set deep with wooden shutters.
They protect against the storms.
They block the night or the light, depending
on the owner’s choice.
About this poem
One of the things I’ve learned about my own depression is that I have to actively let in the light. Nature, nor others will do it. It’s my work.